The Crusader's Veil
by Estepheia
Summary: Post S5 - Buffy is dead, but the Scoobies carry on fighting. When the Crusader comes to Sunnydale Spike has to fight an old enemy...
1. Prologue

PAIRINGS: canon  
SPOILERS: themes up to season 6, set between "Grave" and "Bargaining"  
GENRE: novel, gen-fic, angst, comedy - WIP  
SUMMARY: Buffy is dead, but the Scoobies carry on fighting. When the Crusader comes to Sunnydale Spike has to fight an old enemy...  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: After S5 I tried to write a proper tie-in novel, one that would stay in canon, about the summer of Buffy's death. Of course I was way too optimistic with regard to Spike's Scooby integration. I now intend to dust the story off, rewrite it and spice it up a little. But it will stay close to canon.  
  
  
  
**Prologue**  
  
New York, April 2001  
  
"Report."  
  
The old vampire stood with his back to the large office in front of a darkly tinted panoramic window, looking at the morning sky. He watched the burning ball of fire, as it appeared above the skyscraper skyline, its lethal rays softened to a mere irritation of the skin. The muted sunlight felt warm, almost pleasantly so. He could stand there for almost fifteen minutes before seriously beginning to smoke and blister.  
  
The other two vampires carefully avoided the direct sunlight. The mere thought of the sun's brilliance made them uncomfortable. They revelled in being creatures of darkness and didn't share their Master's preoccupation with anything sunny.  
  
"Sunnydale is protected by the Slayer, My Lord," a good looking man with Slavic features said. He was speaking English with a strong Russian accent. His name was Innokenti. "It might be prudent to dispose of her first," he added off-handedly, as if he was talking about taking out the trash.  
  
"Buffy Summers," the old vampire said without turning around. It wasn't a question.  
  
"Yes, My Lord."  
  
"Proceed."  
  
Innokenti nodded at the female vampire. Her fear was almost tangible. She looked at her laptop screen and began to sum up her findings:  
  
"Buffy Anne Summers, born 1981, visited Hemery High in LA, moved to the Hellmouth in 1997, attended Sunnydale High, enrolled at UC Sunnydale, grades slightly better than average. Parents divorced since 1996. Mother, Joyce Summers, died recently, natural causes - at least according to the paper trail. Father, Hank Summers, whereabouts presently unknown. One younger sister, aged 14, named Dawn. The Slayer is her legal guardian. Horrible taste in names, Buffy... Dawn... Address is 1630 Revello Drive."  
  
The old vampire turned away from the window. "Do I have to find myself a new computer expert?"   
  
The blonde vampire adjusted her spectacles nervously. "I'm doing the best I can, My Lord. Some of her records are difficult to access. Apparently the school where she graduated was destroyed during a demonic Ascension. The town mayor turned into a giant reptile demon and started eating the class of 1999."  
  
"Really? And the town still exists?" The old vampire pursed his lips and walked behind her to get a look at the laptop screen.  
  
"It seems the Ascension was stopped just in the nick of time." The woman handed him a tidy folder of printouts, most of them photographs of Buffy Summers and her family. He browsed through the folder until he came across copies of several newspaper articles. They featured grainy photographs labelled Sunnydale High showing the smouldering ruins of a group of buildings.  
  
He gave her an approving nod. "And that story never made it into the nine o'clock news? These Yankees are better at cover-ups than I thought. Makes me want to check out Area 51, just out of curiosity. What have you got on her Watcher?"  
  
"Rupert Giles, English, has a Green card, owns a Magic Shop in Sunnydale. Four arrests but only two convictions for petty offences in the 80s, worked for the British Museum until he moved to America to take over when the Slayer's first Watcher got killed, worked as a librarian until the High school blew up."  
  
"Did you manage to hack into the Council's files, yet?"  
  
"No, My Lord. I'm still trying. Their encryption codes are pretty much state of the art."  
  
"See that you get into their system. That's what I turned you for." His tone was one of veiled menace.  
  
"Yes, My Lord." She hurriedly bent over her keyboard. She was hungry and tired, but the fear of her master outweighed everything else.  
  
The older vampire put the folder on his desk and walked back to the window, deep in thought, planning and plotting. He still had other sources of information at his disposal. He would question his informants, read the future in the entrails of a beautiful maiden and check his emails. Soon he'd have a more complete picture of Sunnydale. And then he'd deploy his troops.  
  
"Innokenti?"  
  
"Yes, My Lord?"  
  
"It is time. Get everything ready. But keep a low profile. You have two months. After that I will come and claim the Valley of the Sun as my domain."  
  
"What about the Slayer, My Lord?"  
  
The old vampire smiled, even though he could feel the deadly heat of the sun's rays painfully burn his skin through the darkened panes.  
  
"Leave her be. All portents indicate great upheavals for the future. Who knows. By the time I get there, the Slayer may already be dead."


	2. Chapter 1,1

**CHAPTER ONE**  
  
Sunnydale, two months later, June 15th  
  
He had no trouble finding them. They were gathered round one of their usual tables, waiting for the band. The red haired witch was drinking coffee, Harris was drinking beer, ditto Little Miss Vengeance. Blonde Mother Earth was sipping water, appropriately without the sparkle, and the little Trinket was drinking soda through a straw. _Predictable_, Spike thought with a smirk.  
  
He knew them so well. Like a hunter who learns his prey, he had studied them. He knew their scents, their habits and haunts, and quite a few of their secrets, too. If he wanted them dead, setting them up would be a piece of cake. The thought made him smile.  
  
"Spike! Over here," Dawn waved invitingly. The others did not look quite as welcoming.  
  
He sauntered towards them. "Fancy meeting you lot here," he said with fake surprise. "Not playing the Game of Life tonight?" he asked, knowing full well that they didn't anymore because Anya always won.  
  
"Nope! Partaking of some real life," Xander replied. "Which would be both more real and more life-y, if undead life forms didn't creep up on us all the time," he continued with a meaningful glare at the vampire.  
  
"Who's creepin'?" Spike retorted with indignation. "Get real, Harris. Like I want your company, anyway. I only came over to say 'hi' to Dawn."  
  
"Hey Spike," the teenager said.  
  
He thought she looked pale and the smile she gave him was brave but feeble. They'd probably dragged the kid here to cheer her up. "Hello cutie!" he quipped back.  
  
The others had to make do with a vague nod. "So, when's the band coming on?" He could always pretend he was here for the music, couldn't he?  
  
They chatted for a bit - if trading insults could be called chatting. But he didn't hang out with them for long. Talk always became stifled when he was around, unless they were talking shop. That's why he soon reverted to his usual tactics: hovering in their vicinity, supposedly out of earshot, but occasionally eavesdropping on their conversations through his enhanced vampire hearing. Always on the outside, looking in.  
  
He tried to enjoy the music, but it was much too civilized for his liking.  
  
---  
  
They watched with mixed feelings and a certain relief as the Big Bad of years past strolled towards the bar.  
  
"No there's a guy I rather see going than coming," Xander said to no one in particular. "Chip or no, he gives me the creeps. I don't care how…" he stopped. He was going to say 'how heartbroken he was when Buffy died,' but realized just in time that Dawn was standing right next to him and that the whole purpose of this Scooby night out was to _not_ remind her of death and Buffy in general, and dead Buffy in particular. "…how useful he's been. It's his nature to kill and one day he'll be able to, again. And when that happens he'll come after us like Angel did when he lost his soul."  
  
"Well, he'll definitely come after you, Sweetie," Anya pointed out. "I don't think he's happy about the things you've called him. I never called him a monster."  
  
"Thanks Anya," Xander complained, "I really love the subtle way you just put a mile between my fate and yours."  
  
Dawn sighed. Xander was about as discreet about his reservations as a bill board. He never failed to express them when the vampire turned up. And he was so wrong. Spike would never hurt her, even without the chip. "Nature, huh?" she asked, not willing to let it go and hoping to keep Xander and Anya from arguing again. "So, it's the chip that made him promise to protect me?"  
  
_No that was his desire to get into Buffy's pants_, Xander recounted mentally. But that was hardly the right thing to say to the teenager. "I don't know what he's up to, but it's bound to involve some major bloodshed. I'm just saying, we can't trust him. The way I see it, we're all top of the menu."  
  
Willow and Tara exchanged an exasperated glance. Willow found herself secretly wishing there was a spell to make the people she cared about behave like responsible and sane adults, or maybe to just shut them up. She had enough on her plate without the constant bickering.  
  
"Guys, guys," she tried to intervene. "We're here to have fun, right? Not to discuss Spike. If we talk about menus could we maybe stick to pizza toppings and not blood types?" Willow gave Anya a meaningful glare. "You know, stick to more pleasant things?"  
  
The ex-demon frowned but relented. Forcing a cheerful smile she looked at Dawn. "How is the food at summer school?" She asked.  
  
---  
  
_Congratulations! _  
  
Rupert Giles poured himself a stiff drink, courtesy of Quentin Travers. Not bothering with ice or soda he raised his glass in a mock salute to the absent Head of the Council and downed it in one go. It was an expensive spirit. According to the golden print on the fancy wooden box it had arrived in, the whiskey had matured in amontillado casks for over 25 years. But Giles was not in a mood to appreciate its dark color or its peaty flavor. All he was interested in was that strange state of mind that came from drinking until there was a 'click' and peace arrived where before there was turmoil.  
  
_Congratulations. _  
  
He took off his glasses and tossed them on the table in a gesture of disgust. They came to rest on a thick piece of stationary, handmade paper bearing the Council's letterhead.  
  
_Mr. Rupert Giles,  
Congratulations. You and your Slayer, Buffy Summers, have performed your duties to our satisfaction. Although your methods have been considered questionable by the Council in the past, I never doubted your ability to lead your Slayer to victory. The demise of the Hellgod, Glory, will forever stand out in the annals of history as one of the most impressive triumphs the Council has ever been privy to.  
  
I expect to have the opportunity to congratulate the Slayer in person, as I will be travelling to the States shortly, on other Council business.  
  
Until Then,  
  
Quentin Travers Esq.  
Director, Watcher's Council_  
  
He poured himself another drink and knocked it back.  
  
Congratulations. Victory. Triumph.  
  
The inappropriateness of the words left a bad taste in his mouth. How about condolences, defeat, death? They were much more fitting.  
  
He stared at the bottle for a moment, still waiting for that 'click'. It didn't come. Instead there were more words. Commitment. Responsibility. Duty. Legacy. Rupert Giles had always believed in the power of words. He allowed them to work their magic on him. He took a deep breath and resolutely walked to the kitchenette. As he poured the expensive liquor down the drain the turmoil in his mind was replaced not so much by peace but by resolve.  
  
He wasn't certain what he'd do with the rest of his life, now that the inevitable had occurred, now that he was a Watcher without his Slayer, like so many before him. Some purpose would undoubtedly present itself sooner or later. Right now he was still needed here. And he sure as hell wasn't going to quit!  
  
---   
  
"...that Travolta guy got caught with his pants down only 'cause he didn't have the brains to quit, when he had the chance."  
  
"So, what you're saying is that Tarantino is big into this redemption crap? I'm so not buying this..."  
  
"Anyone who reads Modesty Blaise on the loo is just asking for it," Spike muttered under his breath. The vampire was only listening with one ear to the agitated voices that drifted over from the neighboring table. He was watching the Scoobies.  
  
It didn't exactly look like they were having a ball.  
  
Anya glared at Xander, Xander glared at Willow. Willow glared at Anya. Dawn glared at all three of them, Tara didn't glare at all. She looked very much like she'd rather be elsewhere.   
  
After a few attempts at lightening the mood, the two witches fled to the dance floor. Swaying to the music they held each other tight. Back at the table, Harris and his ex-demon girlfriend were having a discussion. They weren't exactly arguing but both looked irritated. Dawn seemed out of place and more than a little uncomfortable. She was scanning the crowd.  
  
Spike wasn't sure she was looking for him, but he was glad the shadows were hiding him. What was he supposed to say to the little bit? That everything would be alright? It wouldn't. That life went on? It didn't. That he'd always be there to protect her, like he'd promised? He would. But there was no point in talking about it, was there.  
  
He sipped his beer, trying to make it last. Watching. Bored, but unable to tear himself away. It was like watching a third-rate soap, embarrassingly addictive once you'd gotten into it.  
  
The witches returned from the dance floor only to head back there when they saw that Xander and Anya's discussion had mutated into a full blown argument.   
  
"'Oh please, Xander," Spike said in a high pitched whine, providing the soundtrack for the pantomime before him, "stop wasting time with your stupid friends. They don't like me and I don't like them. Let's go home and have sex! We haven't had sex for almost two hours. Don't you love me anymore?' – 'Anya, of course I love your body, '" he continued in a deeper voice. "'and I forgive you for constantly embarrassing me in front of my friends who think I'm a total loser anyway and only put up with you and me because they're total nerds themselves.'"   
  
Spike finished his beer. Somehow watching them wasn't funny. Not in the least. Yet, he stayed. They were divided, weak, vulnerable. Easy pickings for a determined predator.   
  
He watched Anya leave in a huff. Xander went after her but returned after a few minutes to morosely stare at his drink and at the dance floor. Not much later the witches dragged a reluctant Dawn home. They obviously asked Xander to come along but he shook his head.  
  
There was no need to follow the witches. Dawn was safe with them. Willow's power was more than enough to take care of Sunny D's usual beasties. So, Spike stayed and watched Xander some more.  
  
The human was staring at couples that were making out on the dance floor, looking miserable. The sight made the vampire smile.  
  
Spike hunted through the pockets of his duster for his ciggies and the lighter. Just one crumpled packet. _Only two left...Maybe I can scrounge a few quid off Harris... _  
  
As much as he hated to admit it, he was utterly broke. Drinking oneself into a stupor didn't come cheap. He hadn't been scavenging at the city dump lately, and it had been ages since any of the Scoobies had given him a bit of cash. "You're beneath me!" Buffy had said, tossing the bills at him contemptuously. Oh God, he really hadn't planned on going back to that memory!  
  
Spike lit his cigarette then picked up two cue sticks and walked over to Xander. He tossed one of the sticks at the human who caught it by reflex. Spike nodded wordlessly towards the pool tables and raised a questioning eyebrow.  
  
Xander hesitated.   
  
Spike could read the other man's face like a book: _'No way. What does Spike want with me now? What's his evil plan?' _  
  
Spike shrugged. _Suit yourself. _He turned around.  
  
But the human grabbed his drink and followed him.  
  
There wasn't an empty table but Spike's menacing glare soon convinced a few students that caution was the better part of valour. They cleared out, leaving behind their drinks. _Bonus! _Spike took a swallow from an abandoned beer that looked like it hadn't been touched yet and began to arrange the balls.  
  
As long as he got a few beers out of it and didn't have to hang out in his crypt all by himself, Bronzing with the glorified brick-layer didn't seem so bad. _'Sides, the boy's witty, in an American kind of way. When he's not gloomy, like now. _  
  
"So, Spike," Xander suddenly asked, "when are you leaving?"  
  
"When am I leaving what?"  
  
"Sunnydale."  
  
Spike leaned on his cue stick and regarded him coldly for a moment. He finished his beer and turned his back on him to take aim. "Wasn't planning on leaving," he mumbled and took his shot. The targeted ball criss-crossed the table and landed in the corner pocket. "This is as good or bad a place as any. Plenty of nasties to kill."  
  
He could feel the human's eyes on him, assessing him but he didn't look up. Instead Spike sunk another ball. And another.  
  
"What do you want, Spike?"  
  
"I just want to look after the nibblet. Like I promised." It came out more defensively than he had intended.  
  
"No, I mean… I was talking drinks. I'm buying," Xander said, just as Spike was making his shot. The white ball went off course, passed the targeted ball and rolled out.  
  
"Oh, um…Becks," Spike said unable to keep a certain aloofness out of his voice. He straightened and stood back to give Xander room to play.  
  
Xander sunk a ball, then missed. "Then Becks it is," he said and made his way to the bar.  
  
Leaning casually against a concrete pillar, Spike lit his last cigarette and dropped the empty packet on the floor. The last time someone had bought him a drink it had been a prelude to being pumped for information. Spike was pretty sure this was no exception.  
  
A few minutes later Xander was back with the drinks.  
  
"Cheers, mate," Spike said and took a swig. "Oh bugger!"


	3. Chapter 1,2

CHAPTER 1.2 

"What?"  
  
Spike scanned the vicinity. "Vampires, three of them."  
  
"Where?" Xander replied, all business, just as Spike spotted a face from days gone by. _Bloody hell, what's he doing in Sunny D? _  
  
"Actually, make that four," Spike corrected himself. "Two on the dance floor, the black-haired girl with that horrible Willow-like skirt, and the pimply Brad Pitt wannabe. Can you see them?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"One up there, on the catwalk, brown hair, dressed in black."  
  
"Got him, too."  
  
"And the pretty brunette who is chatting up that bundle of steroids at the bar."  
  
Xander nodded and picked up his cue stick. "So, let's take them out."  
  
"Not so fast," Spike cautioned. "The one on the catwalk is a tough one, goes by the name of Konrad. Also known as the Crusader. And that moniker's no joke. Fellow's been around for bloody ages. He's strong and he's fast. And his black mojo makes Willow look like small fry."  
  
"An old friend of yours?"  
  
"Unfinished business."  
  
"Can you kill him?"  
  
"Are you joking? Not a chance." At least not with Harris getting in the way.   
  
"I don't believe mine very own Xander ears. Was that big bad Spike backing down just now? I never thought I'd see the day," Xander mocked-   
  
"Don't act so surprised. Konrad on his own, I'd take on any day. But not when he's got his fan club with him." Uttered with more bravado than Spike truly felt, because the last time he'd had a run-in with the Crusader only Drusilla's uncanny foresight had kept him from being turned into minced vampire. He'd hadn't exaggerated when he told Xander that Konrad was dangerous and his presence in Sunnyhell was bad news.  
  
"So, now what? We go and get the others?"  
  
"You go," Spike stabbed him with his finger. "Me I'll keep an eye on things." Maybe he could take out some of the Crusader's goons before making a quick exit.  
  
Xander nodded. "Don't do anything, I wouldn't do, pal."  
  
_Would I ever? _He watched Xander's back as the young man threaded his way through the bustling crowd towards the exit, then found himself a dark corner and watched the undead quartet go about their hunt. The brunette had successfully charmed her mark into buying drinks and clung to his arm, practically screaming 'easy lay.' From the looks of it, the dumb jock had already swallowed hook, line and sinker. All she had to do was haul him in - or rather outside, into the dark alley just outside the Bronze, which the local vampire population had named Happy Hour Lane. Spike caught her exchanging a triumphant glance with her master.  
  
Willow-skirts was also doing well. She had moved away from the dance floor and to a table where three nerdy looking guys (on whose movie discussion Spike had eavesdropped earlier) were almost killing themselves offering her drinks, peanuts and undying affection. Two of the nerds, Spike knew. That Warren guy who had built the Buffy robot and the little runt who'd thrust everybody into a narcissistic alternate reality two years ago. Spike shuddered at the vague memory.  
  
He sighed and walked over with his most bad ass swagger, cue stick twirling like a baton. The black-haired vampire, a pretty girl in her human guise, looked at him questioningly. "Sod off! My turf! Was here first." Sure enough, she was a fledgling and backed off right away, hands raised. She quickly grabbed her purse and disappeared, ostentatiously heading towards the exit but at the last minute making a bee-line to report to her master.  
  
"Listen Superstar," Spike snarled before the three Stooges had a chance to complain, "take your friends and get lost before you get eaten. That girl? You wouldn't like her. Really bad teeth. Now, off you go."  
  
Jonathan was anything but stupid. He grabbed his resisting mates and they left in a healthy hurry.  
  
Spike looked up to meet the Crusader's gaze. _Bugger. _So much for keeping a low profile. He raised his eyebrow in a mock salute and slowly walked back to the pool tables. Absentmindedly tossing the white ball with one hand and holding a wooden cue stick in the other, Spike waited. As expected, it didn't take long and he was approached by Konrad himself.  
  
He was wearing a black trench coat and expensive designer clothes that seemed strangely out of place in a place like the Bronze. His followers were nearby, but their presence was an empty threat, because even the Crusader did not pick pack fights in the middle of a flock of sheep.  
  
"Spike! What a pleasant surprise!" Konrad exclaimed with fake enthusiasm. He spoke perfect American English, without a trace of an accent.  
  
"Crusader."  
  
"How long has it been? Fifty, sixty years?"  
  
"Ninety, or so."  
  
"Really? Doesn't time fly? How are you? And how is your enchanting lady, the beauteous Drusilla, these days? I heard you were staying in South America."  
  
"Boring place. Left Russia, did you?"  
  
"Without a proper dictatorship the country just isn't what it used to be. Political change made a relocation advisable. We've been in this wonderful fast food country for almost ten years now."  
  
Spike just shrugged. _Pompous bastard._  
  
"Shall we just continue, then, where we left off?" The Crusader asked with an inviting gesture towards the exit.  
  
_Bollocks! I just knew he'd hold a grudge. _Spike sighed inwardly but he set down his bottle. "Yeah, right. I s'pose I can finish this later..."  
  
"I wouldn't count on it," the other vampire said smoothly.  
  
***  
  
Moscow 1910  
  
It was a strange duel. Although it was several degrees below freezing, the only beings whose breath condensed into little misty clouds were the restless horses that were harnessed to the two carriages. All the others, the combatants, their seconds and their admiring ladies were dead. Or rather undead. When they did breathe, in order to speak, the air left their lungs at the same freezing temperature at which it had been inhaled.  
  
_Godforsaken weather. _Spike thought miserably. He hated the cold, as did Drusilla. His beloved was dressed in a beautiful blood red overcoat lined with a luscious black sable collar. A fur hat and a sable muff completed her expensive wardrobe. She looked stunning, like a delicious splash of blood on snow. He bowed over her outstretched hand and planted a kiss on it. "I will have to draw you like this, my lovely," he murmured. "As soon as I've killed that bloody arsehole over there and gotten us out of this bleedin' cold."  
  
Drusilla merely smiled at his words. She was strangely quiet that day, playing with a polished little silver pendant and staring at Spike's opponent in that strangely attentive way that told Spike that she was studying the situation quite lucidly.  
  
The Crusader and his second were dressed in uniforms of tsarist officers or whatever. Spike didn't really care. Konrad's "Dame" as he called her, Louisa, was dressed in dark green. Her hair was a cascade of blonde curls that reached down to her waist. She, too, wore a fur hat and muff, but their color was white. Spike thought she paled next to the dark beauty of his true love.  
  
Time to get going. Spike was growing impatient. _What's he waiting for? _He bounced up and down, and whipped his curved saber through the air. If he had to wait any longer, his joints would probably freeze and snap like icicles. The stolen heat from their last meal had left his body much too quickly.  
  
Finally, the Crusader took his coat off, exchanged a few words with his lady and drew his weapon. He walked over, his movements smooth and graceful.  
  
How come the bleedin' ponce didn't look cold at all? Spike frowned.  
  
The two vampires got into a fighting stance, vamp faces to the fore, and the seconds gave the signal. Spike lunged straight away, hoping to surprise the older vampire with his speed, but his thrust was easily parried and riposted. Spike parried, and so the blades flicked back and forth, their gleaming tips weaving a shimmering pattern.  
  
It was soon all too apparent that Spike was hopelessly outmatched. Their blades had barely contacted more than twenty times, when the tip of his opponent's saber found Spike's skin for the first time, marking his left cheek with a scarlet gash. Spike realized Konrad was not only an experienced swordsman, but also much faster than him. There, another cut, the right cheek this time. The Crusader was playing with him.  
  
Konrad smiled at him in satisfaction. "Your lady will be such an exquisite adornment for my court. I promise I will treasure her till the end of time."  
  
A deep growl rose in Spike's breast. It was time to fight for real. Remembering some of the ballet like moves the Chinese Slayer had used to attack and defend he became a ferocious whirlwind, kicking, slashing, clawing. He used every trick no matter how exotic or how dirty and finally landed a good hit himself, that cut through the other vampire's shirt and nicked his abdomen, drawing blood.  
  
The two vampires separated, circling each other warily. Suddenly the sound of a pistol shot chased a whole unkindness of ravens into the icy leaden sky.  
  
The combatants quickly turned towards the source of the sound, just in time to see Louisa explode in a shower of dust. The acrid smell of gunpowder wafted upwards from the twin barrels of a small derringer pistol that was protruding from a black sable muff.  
  
"You really shouldn't cheat in a duel, you know." Dru said, smiling sweetly at Konrad. "I can smell magic in your blood, keeping you warm and fast."  
  
"A spell, ey?" Spike grinned suggestively. "What else do you need a spell for? Servicing the missus?"  
  
The Crusader snarled in anger. Dropping all play he disarmed the younger vampire with a practiced twist of his own blade, cutting deep into his opponent's forearm in the process. Spike yelped in pain. Helplessly he watched his blade clatter to the ground, way out of reach.  
  
The other vampire smiled condescendingly. Keeping the point of his sword pointed at his enemy, he slowly moved to where Drusilla and the seconds were standing. "Don't worry, insolent cub, I won't kill you, not yet. I'll dust your little trollop first."  
  
_Who needs a bleedin' sword anyway? _Roaring Spike hurled himself at his opponent, not caring in the least that the point of the saber entered his body about an inch below his breastbone. It hurt like hell, but he let the momentum carry him forward until the hilt touched his belly and the blade protruded from his back. Until he could lay his hands on the older vampire. He gripped the other's head, trying to twist his neck, and when that did not work tried to drive his fangs into Konrad's throat.  
  
Around them the snow was now churned, splattered with blood. They still stood upright, their bodies interlocked in what looked like a ferocious embrace. The Crusader had grabbed Spike by his ponytail and was trying to yank his head away from his throat. With the other hand he was twisting the blade in Spike's body. Spike was half crazy with pain, almost mindlessly clawing at the other's face with his hands and teeth.  
  
Another gunshot sounded. The Crusader screamed as the wooden bullet missed his heart by less than an inch. With one violent, desperate shove he pushed the younger vampire off, and for a fraction of a second, before Spike could grab hold of him again, the older vampire's body shimmered as it transformed into the shape of a black raven. The bird quickly rose to the sky, and was soon out of sight.  
  
Spike just collapsed, underneath him a slowly growing puddle of blood. He was barely conscious, but he knew he'd heal. He heard his love instructing his second to bring one of the carriage horses over for him to feed on. And then she knelt at his side. Drusilla. "My brave warrior, my dark knight," she exclaimed, cradling him in her arms, not caring if his blood stained her beautiful coat. Her embrace was painful, but her adoration warmed his heart.   
  
***  
  
Spike walked ahead, the Crusader at his heel. Knowing the enemy at his back gave him the creeps, but he put on his best swagger, anyway. Even though it felt like he was being marched to his execution. And he kept the cue stick – not that he really expected to play another game of pool tonight.  
  
The air outside was mild. The music from inside was still audible, but strangely distorted. Spike kept on walking along Happy Hour Lane, leading his hostile vampire entourage away from the main exit and other potential innocent bystanders until he reached a cul-de-sac, infamously known as Slayer's Corner - at least among the local vampires. It was a good place to feed, unless the Slayer was nearby. Two houses and a wall provided a certain amount of cover. Unfortunately they also prevented one from running away. Spike sighed. At least there shouldn't be any nasty surprises popping up behind his back. He turned to face Konrad and his gang. Which now consisted of six followers. Brilliant.  
  
"Right then, how 'bout we do it here? Swords again?"  
  
"That won't be necessary." Konrad vamped out, and his gang followed suit.  
  
"I take it you won't be all chivalrous and give me a fighting chance, then?"  
  
The vampires just grinned at him.  
  
Spike shrugged. "Yeah, thought as much."  
  
He grabbed the cue like a quarterstaff and dashed forward. A half turn, a quick poke to the side and one of those toothy grins turned to dust. The others didn't hesitate, though. Armed with improvised stakes and some nasty looking knives they came for him. Not all at once, but always at least two, sometimes even three at a time. Spike managed to land some painful kicks and his whirling cue bought him a little bit of manoeuvring space, but the way he was outnumbered made it impossible to exploit the few situations in which he thought he had gained the upper hand.  
  
They weren't serious about finishing him off quickly. They were cautious. Studied his moves. Just inflicted damage, like a pack of wolves, weakening their prey. Konrad had really trained them well. The Crusader held back of course, and Spike had no chance to reach him. He'd have to go through Konrad's minions first. But the truth was, he couldn't really see himself winning. It was a bloody good fight, though. His opponents were cunning. And he had to use every trick in the book, to avoid getting dusted. Even so, he got cut and stabbed a few times, fortunately not in vital parts of his anatomy.  
  
"Hey, Crusader, do you actually tie your own shoelaces or do you need your minions for that as well?" Spike shouted.  
  
"Hey, Crusadork," another, familiar voice, echoed. "My mom always told me not to poke dead things with a stick...I guess, in this case, I'll make an exception."  
  
"Hey, Crusa-whatever," a third, female voice chipped in. "Say hello to Mr. Pointy!"  
  
Stunned silence. Then Konrad and his fang gang whirled around and saw two...   
  
"Humans?" the Brad Pitt look-alike exclaimed, incredulously. Taking advantage of the element of surprise Xander skilfully dusted him and went after Willow-skirts. The blonde Slayer did a breathtaking somersault, knocking two Vampires over, and dusting another one, en passant.  
  
Konrad pulled a sword from under his coat, but he did not join the fray. Instead, he watched the final death of his minions impassively. "Natasha!" he beckoned. The brunette vampire obeyed and gracefully moved to his side.  
  
Spike tried to take out Konrad, but somehow Willow-skirts got in the way, so he finished her off, instead, turning that horrible piece of clothing to dust along with its owner. Having aimed for the same vampire Xander bumped into Spike and knocked him over. "Careful! Don't wonna fit in an ashtray, yet!" Spike quipped. "Your big mouth would never fit in an ashtray," was Xander's slightly preoccupied retort. Both scrambled to their feet just in time to see the Slayer kill off another vampire. However, Konrad and Natasha, were nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Bollocks!" Spike exclaimed. "Probably turned into a bleedin' bird again."  
  
"He does that? Like you-know-who, Mr. funny accent?" Xander asked, slightly panicky.  
  
"Drac? Yeah. Konrad's about the same age, maybe older."  
  
"So, in the year twenty-five twenty-five you can expect to turn into what, a fluffy little bunny?"  
  
"Oh, that would be so sweeeeeet," the Slayer squealed.  
  
Both men ignored her completely. Instead Spike frowned at the human. "Don't be inane," he said dismissively.  
  
"Come to think of it, Anya wouldn't like that at all. But how about a peroxided lab rat?" Xander grinned, quite evilly, actually. He was obviously on a high caused by the heady mixture of adrenaline and victory.  
  
"I'm warning you, Harris." Spike said, torn between a frown and a reluctant grin.  
  
"Eow, rats!" the blond girl whined, trying to sneak her arm round the vampire's waist.  
  
"Oh, stop it, Slayer!" Spike snapped, his good mood suddenly gone. He knew the robot was only following her programming. But every time that damn thing touched him or fawned on him it was like someone twisted a knife in his guts.  
  
"But I just saved you, Spike, and you know fighting makes me all hot. Don't you want to feel me up?" She grabbed his hand to shove it under her tank top but he yanked it away.  
  
There was an embarrassed silence as both men tried to pretend that they didn't see the robot's unhappy face.  
  
"Buffy," Xander finally said. "Go back on patrol."  
  
"Patrol, yes," the buffybot exclaimed cheerfully. She shoved the stake into the sleeve of her leather jacket and marched off, to resume her patrol pattern.  
  
Spike turned to Xander. "Listen, I think it's time we got out of here. The witches might still be up, stargazing and what not. We should tell them what happened. Let Rupert know, too."  
  
Xander nodded.  
  
They headed for Xander's car.  
  
"Say, Spike?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"How long till _you_ become a shape shifter?"  
  
"Haven't got the faintest. Not any time soon, I should think."  
  
"How about that thrall thing? You know, making people eat bugs and stuff?"  
  
"Can't," Spike answered.  
  
Xander unlocked the car, slid in and leaned over to open the passenger door for Spike. "But if you could?"  
  
"Would I make you eat bugs and spiders? Is that the question?"  
  
Xander shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid for asking.  
  
"'Course I would. How often do I have to tell you guys? I'm evil." Spike stated automatically, watching with disdain as the human buckled his seat belt. He searched his pockets for his cigarettes before he remembered that he'd already smoked his last. "On second thought, though," he pondered aloud, "I don't think I would."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Not my style."  
  
"I guess I should be thankful for small favors, then." Xander started the car and turned on the headlights. He drove in silence.  
  
"Say," Spike said after a while. "You couldn't lend me a tenner, could you?"  
  
  
***  
  
Konrad lifted the shroud of invisibility that had protected him and Natasha from being detected.  
  
"Well well, Spike has found himself a new girlfriend. And a Slayer, too. Who would have thought William the Bloody, killer of two Slayers, would join forces with humans or have a Chosen One fall for him. How very interesting."  
  
The undead crusader chuckled, and it wasn't a pleasant sound.


	4. Chapter 2,1

CHAPTER TWO  
  
June 16th  
  
It was still dark, when Dawn Summers woke with a start, all sweaty and with her heart hammering like mad. Just another nightmare. Dawn knew a lot about those. She couldn't remember this one, but obviously it hadn't been of the screaming kind, because there were no worried friends standing beside her bed. This had been one of those silent leaden dreams that made breathing difficult and that left her almost paralyzed with unnamed dread. The screaming ones were better, at least they offered a kind of release. And it was nice to wake and find Tara or sometimes Willow checking on her and hugging her back to sleep.  
  
The Willow-made Dreamcatcher that hung over her bed was not strong enough to keep the nightmares at bay, but it dulled them, made them fade fast. Dawn touched the fragile contraption, feeling the softness of the feathers, the roundness of the beads. Her heart was still beating too fast and she felt a crushing sense of foreboding. She slipped out of bed, tiptoed to her desk and turned on the lights. She took her diary out of its hiding place, opened it and slowly began to write, pouring her grief and anger onto the empty pages.  
  
Buffy was dead because of her. No matter what the others said, it was the truth. Without Dawn Buffy would still be patrolling Sunnydale's cemeteries; she'd hang out at the Bronze; she'd mope about Angel and fight with Spike; she'd worry about university courses and be on the look out for Mr. Right. Without Dawn Buffy would still be alive. And who knows, if Buffy hadn't been so busy protecting Dawn from Glory, researching and what not, perhaps she would have been at home when that thing in Mom's head happened. And Mom would still be alive? Was that possible?  
  
Her diary could not tell her the answer, but deep inside her heart Dawn knew it anyway: because of her, both her Mom and Buffy were dead. She had never asked to be created. It was all the monks' fault. Couldn't they have turned the key into a nice glowing orb or something? Or some kind of animal? It would have been nice to be cat. It was so unfair! So unfair, that she added some more exclamation points.  
  
She chewed on her pen, then absentmindedly drew a small cat. Too bad she couldn't do magic like Willow and Tara. It would be cool to be able to do spells and stuff, and turn into a cat, a gray one with stripes. But Tara said it was too dangerous. Everything was too dangerous in her eyes.  
  
Dawn sighed, snapped her diary shut and hid it. She slid back between the covers and within a few minutes she was fast asleep. Outside her window the sky was already growing pale, anticipating the moment when the sun's rays would make it blush a fiery pink. It would be a beautiful dawn.  
  
***  
  
Konrad von Hohenfels tipped the sleepy bellhop and stepped into the elevator, his consort Natasha at his side. She was an elegant looking woman - thin and strong, but also graceful. She didn't look out of place in the Sunnydale Four Seasons Hotel, the town's most exclusive hotel, even at such a late hour. She took the key out of her purse and turned it in a lock that was labeled 'Penthouse'. The elevator began its ascent.  
  
"Get me Innokenti," the old vampire said.  
  
Natasha took a small cell phone out of her purse and dialled a number. She held it to her ear, listening, then passed it to her master.  
  
"William the Bloody, a.k.a. Spike. Find his lair," the Crusader spoke into the phone, without a word of greeting. "I want to know what he's doing here. I want the whole story, Innokenti." He listened for a few moments then passed the phone back to Natasha. She killed the connection and put the device back into her handbag.  
  
They stepped out of the elevator. The corridor was guarded by two good-looking, strong and well-muscled men, carrying automatic handguns. A striking family resemblance pegged them as brothers. They moved like tigers on the prowl. When the lift doors opened, they trained their guns at the new arrivals, but they relaxed when they recognized their master. Both were vampires in human guise. Konrad greeted them with a curt nod and strode towards his suite. A dazed looking human opened the door for him.  
  
There were half a dozen vampires present: four males and two females, all of them wearing their bestial faces. They hurriedly rose to their feet when their master walked in. Natasha closed the door behind him. Two very large dogs got up from a rug they had been lying on and whined in a expression of submission.   
  
There were also six humans. They were naked, bound and gagged, lying on a bloodstained tarpaulin. Multiple bite marks blemished their necks, wrists and thighs. They were almost drained, but still alive. Their breathing was shallow and their heartbeats sluggish. The smell of their blood hung in the room. The Crusader studied the captives briefly.  
  
"Any problems?" he asked.  
  
"No, My Lord," one of his minions answered with alacrity.  
  
"Well done."  
  
No one in Sunnydale would miss them. They had been expertly snatched from night trains during their brief stops. Their missing persons files would litter police desks elsewhere, as intended. Their luggage had been taken, too. Suitcases, purses, coats and six neat piles of clothes were kept in an adjoining room. Several wallets, cell phones and other valuables were lying on a side table.  
  
"Natasha?"  
  
"My Lord?"  
  
"The chalice."  
  
The brunette vampire hurried over to the old-fashioned wardrobe trunk that stood in the corner of the room, took out an object and unwrapped the burgundy velvet cloth. The chalice looked quite old and it was slightly dented. It was actually quite unimpressive. Still, Natasha held it reverently.  
  
Konrad cut his wrist with a sharp nail and let his blood drip into the chalice. When it was filled to about a third, he held his wrist out to her. Natasha smiled, delighted at the sign of his favor and lapped at the cut until it closed.  
  
Then she knelt next to the first of the human captives, and cradled him in her arms, careful not to get blood stains on her expensive dress. She dipped her finger into the blood and smeared it on the man's lips. He stirred weakly, then his tongue darted out licking up the potent drink, craving more. Natasha smiled and brought the chalice to his lips.  
  
Meanwhile, the Crusader sat down in a comfortable leather armchair behind an antique desk. He snapped his fingers and the two gray hounds cowered at his feet.   
He spent an hour talking to the other vampires, browsing through folders, looking at photographs, studying maps and charts and writing out checks.  
  
One by one the other vampires were sent away on various errants, until only two remained: the blonde, spectacled computer specialist and a vampire in an elegant pinstripe suit. He wore glasses and looked every inch a lawyer. Which he was, or rather had been, when he was turned.  
  
"Did you find out where she's buried?" the Crusader asked.  
  
"Yes, My Lord," The spectacled vampire nodded and handed him a sheet of paper with the address of a cemetery and a plot number written on it.  
  
"What about the Council. Have you cracked their codes yet?"  
  
"No My Lord," she said, looking frightened.  
  
The Crusader shifted his attention to his undead legal adviser. They finalized several purchases of land and houses with his signature. Suddenly there was a beeping sound, as a digital alarm clock went off, announcing the imminent sunrise. The old vampire rose. "Come with me," he ordered the blonde hacker. Fear stood in her eyes but she followed him outside, onto the balcony of the expensive penthouse suite.  
  
Konrad let his vampiric features come to the fore, relishing the heightening of his senses and the feeling of power that was the gift of his nature. He gazed at the eastern horizon. He had specifically asked for a balcony that was facing east, because he wanted to watch as the stars lost their sparkle and as the sky's velvety blackness dulled. He wanted to watch grays and pinks bleed into each other. To his vampiric senses the colors were even more beautiful and radiant. He could almost sense the great ball of fire and heat that was the sun, hurtling towards him at 1000 miles per hour, eager to ignite him. The Crusader chuckled.  
  
The blonde vampire at his side reeked of fear. Every instinct screamed at her to take cover, to hide in the dark, where the sun couldn't burn her. But a strange force had her enthralled.  
  
"Stay," Konrad said, his voice vibrating with power.  
  
He turned around and went back inside just as the sun passed the horizon. Natasha had been waiting for him and wordlessly closed the French windows. She quickly pulled the curtains, but not quite fast enough. A thin shaft of sunlight seared her hand and there was a sudden smell of burning flesh. She hissed and adjusted the curtains.  
  
Outside, the blonde vampire stood, as she was told. Her feet wouldn't move. It was as if she was rooted to the spot. Before her she saw the sun rising into the sky and she screamed as bright rays of pain pierced her eyes and body. Within the blink of an eye she was ablaze, flailing her arms as if to ward off a blow. A moment later a gust of wind whipped her ashes away.  
  
---  
  
Tara loved watching the sun rise. It was like watching a new beginning, the rebirth of the world and even though it sounded sappy and corny in her mind, there was truth in the cliché.  
  
She finished her yoga exercise, the greeting of the sun, glad that at least during weekends there was no morning rush getting everybody out of bed and making breakfast. There had been a lot more peace and quiet for her exercises before she met the Scoobies, but that was before she met Willow, and nothing on earth could make her pine for her pre-Scooby days.  
  
She pulled the morning gown around her and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. Willow loved breakfast in bed, and with all the new responsibility she was now shouldering she deserved a special treat.  
  
***  
  
Butch Kendall was twenty-two years old, and he was sick of funerals. He'd been to six funerals in his life, already - including his sister's. He'd also attended the memorial service for the victims of Graduation Day 1999.  
  
And now he and the other Sunnydale Razorbacks stood at an open grave waiting for yet another one of their team to be lowered into the ground.  
  
He squinted in the bright sunlight. It was stiflingly hot, even though the sun hadn't reached its highest peak, yet. The flowers on the wreaths were starting to look wilted. Butch felt hot and sweaty in his formal team blazer, the ones they wore for publicity photos or when one of them got married. Or buried.  
  
The priest droned on an on, his voice flat, the words of comfort and hope hollow. To Butch he didn't sound like he had a lot of faith left in him. Just going through the motions. Butch wasn't a great academic, and he knew it, but he wasn't stupid, either. He knew that after dark Sunnydale turned into the Valley of the Dead.  
  
The newspapers had a whole arsenal of explanations for the many deaths and disappearances in this town, ranging from seemingly rational to ludicrous to downright desperate. They blamed drugs, modern times, society, the proximity of L.A., geomagnetism, serial killers, even aliens from outer space.  
  
The other day he'd caught his Mom watching a local talk show where a bunch of overpaid psychologists were busily sucking up to their viewers telling them what they wanted to hear: that whatever happened wasn't their fault. If their children ran away or gunned down their class mates at school it was because of sex and violence on television and a general godlessness. Nice and simple. Much easier than facing the truth that in Sunnydale there really were monsters.  
  
Hell, he and his parents had been there when during the Graduation presentation ceremony all hell had broken loose. The town mayor had turned into a giant snake demon and had begun to devour the class of 1999, starting with Principal Snyder but then picking off one student after another. And a bunch of vampires had attacked guests and students alike. If it hadn't been for that weird blonde girl with the silly name, Buffy Summers, everybody would have died, not just Harmony.  
  
And what had the papers said? "Drug induced Mass Hallucination at Graduation Day Party" - "Mayor Wilkins Killed in High School Drug Craze" - "Drug Addicts Blow Up High School". What a big pile of crap! But his folks bought it. They always believed what the papers said. Even when their eyes told them differently.  
  
He looked at Mr. and Mrs. Cleese, Patrick's parents, the way they leaned on each other for support. Just like his own parents at his sister's funeral. It came back to him with such force that it made his eyes sting.  
  
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The priest had finally come to the end of his sermon. Mr. and Mrs. Cleese gripped the shovel together and there was a hollow sound as the earth hit the coffin of their only child.  
  
Butch swallowed. There was a lump in his throat. There were tearful embraces, as distant relatives and close friends expressed their condolences to the grief stricken parents. Butch saw his own Mom crying openly, as she and Dad shovelled some more earth into the gaping hole in the ground.  
  
Coach Henderson shook Mr. Cleese's hand. "He was a fine young man, with great team spirit, who will be missed by all," he said pompously, sounding more like a politician than like a football coach.  
  
Butch was next. He braced himself. He'd been Patrick's best friend since second grade, they'd been room mates at college and in the same fraternities. They'd been so close, others had started to call them Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid. Their fathers were golf partners. And there was a long running tradition of Cleese-Kendall family barbecues.  
  
He offered his hand, but Mrs. Cleese embraced him with something akin to desperation. "You'll still come and visit us, every now and then, won't you, Butch?" she asked, reluctant to let him go because if she held him it was like having a bit of her son back.  
  
He nodded, unable to speak. When he shook hands with Mr. Cleese, he appeared all manly and civilized, but deep inside he was smoldering with rage.  
  
***  
  
When Spike rushed into the Magic Box, covered by a smoldering blanket, it was afternoon and the Scoobies were already sitting at the Round Table, where all their research and their discussions took place.  
  
A half-eaten box of donuts sat in the middle, surrounded by coffee mugs and the obligatory pile of dusty old tomes. Giles was on the upper level, browsing through the restricted section. He acknowledged the vampire's arrival with an unintelligible mumble.  
  
Spike ignored him. "Nibblet," he greeted Dawn.   
  
She looked up from her book. "Spike."  
  
"So, you're getting into vampirology now?"  
  
"You wish." She lifted the book so he could see the cover. "Maths," she grimaced.  
  
"Yeah, I never got the finer points of geometry, either."  
  
He grabbed an empty chair, which happened to be the one next to Xander and sat down hugging the backrest.  
  
Xander acknowledged his presence with a curt nod and dug into the donut box as if fearing the competition. He was reading a book on vampire history, without great enthusiasm. Spike smirked and took a donut just to spite him.  
  
"Hi, Spike," Willow greeted him distractedly. She was busily typing something into her laptop computer " Now that you're here, we can-"  
  
"Will?" he interrupted.  
  
The witch frowned "What is it, Spike?"  
  
"Before we talk about the Crusader, could we just briefly deal with this?" He stuck his pale fingers through several holes in his T-shirt and wriggled them.  
  
"Oh look, your T-shirt's got holes in it. And you're showing us this because?" Willow asked.  
  
"Last night's crusade cost me another outfit." He informed her. He put a booted foot on the table and fingered a gash in the fabric of his pants. "See? Got one more outfit at the crypt. If that gets torn as well, you'll all have to stare at my bare bottom."  
  
Dawn giggled.  
  
"Now, that's a dire threat, if ever I heard one." Xander proclaimed.  
  
"I think it sounded more like a promise," Anya said, not without interest. She didn't notice the irritated look Xander gave her.  
  
"What do you want me to do about it. Oh I know, you want me to do a spell to fix them? I never did a mending spell before but I'm sure it's possible, with a bit of tinkering."  
  
Spike shook his head at the witch's obvious enthusiasm. "No mojo," he said. "Dough. I'm broke. Had to borrow money from Harris just to buy myself some smokes. You don't want me to rob people, and I'm not getting a job or anything. And at night I'm patrolling instead of… well doing other… more lucrative things."  
  
The witches exchanged glances. "Hmm, yes, we have to find a solution to that... ah... problem." Willow agreed. "What did you have in mind?"  
  
"Get the sodding Council to cough up a bit."  
  
Xander laughed. "They wouldn't even pay Buffy. The only thing you'll get from them is a well-aimed stake and maybe, just maybe, a cardboard box to keep your ashes in. Hey, that doesn't sound so bad! Go on, ask them."  
  
"Giles?" Willow asked. Everybody turned to look at the Watcher.  
  
Rupert Giles's role in the Scooby meetings had changed, since Buffy's death. Without a live Slayer to watch over the man had lost his purpose in life. Sure, he was still there in the flesh, and he was still prepared to let the Scooby gang pick his brain, but something was missing. It was as if the fire had gone out in him. Even the shop, of which he had been so proud, didn't give him pleasure, anymore.  
  
Spike was secretly wondering if the Watcher was planning on going back to England. Hell, he already seemed half gone.  
  
Giles came down the ladder, balancing a small stack of books. "Truthfully? The Council may have turned a blind eye to the fact that none of us have put a stake into Spike's heart just yet, but I seriously doubt that they'd be willing to consider a monetary recompense." He put the volumes on the table and took off his glasses to polish them vigorously. "I can certainly ask on Spike's behalf. Personally, I find the idea of a vampire being on the Council's payroll ludicrous, but that is not for me to decide."  
  
He put his spectacles back on. "If you all agree that the fight against evil takes precedence over the state of Spike's wardrobe, then perhaps we can concentrate on our latest enemy."  
  
Everybody nodded. Everybody except Spike, so Giles continued. "Willow? What have you been able to ascertain?"  
  
"I checked obituaries and police records and there haven't been any more unusual occurrences than usual. I mean there are a few missing persons cases and there is at least one grave that we should check out tonight, that looks fishy, or rather vampy, but that's normal, I mean Sunnydale-normal. Maybe he just arrived. If I knew more about him I might be able to check flight records and train reservations…"  
  
"Yeah, give us something to work with, Giles," Xander said. He shoved the book he'd been reading away from him. "Give us some facts. Narrow it down."  
  
"Certainly," the Watcher agreed, smoothly going into lecture mode. He picked up a book from the table and opened it where a white piece of paper stuck out. "According to a this chronicle here, the Crusader's real name is Konrad von Hohenfels. He would have eventually inherited a small Earldom in Western Germany, had he made it back from the Holy Land alive. He commanded a small unit of men-at-arms during the First Crusade, apparently with great success. It is believed he was turned before the turn of the century. He was the scourge of the newly formed Kingdom of Jerusalem. After killing his Saracen sire he turned other European knights and squires and they preyed on the indigenous population, like wolves on a herd of sheep." He put the open book on the table, and tossed his glasses on top of them.  
  
He noticed Xander's half-raised hand. He sighed. "Yes?"  
  
"That would have been the turn of which century?"  
  
"The First Crusade took place 1096-1099," Willow said, smiling happily.  
  
Giles nodded and picked up another volume. "This one gives us basically the same information," he said, without opening it. "But it also mentions that Konrad may have belonged to a legendary group of knights called The Tafurs, a particularly fanatical group of destitute crusaders who foreswore plundering but excelled at slaughter and rape. During the Antioch famine they are supposed to have, well... turned to cannibalism, eating the flesh of their dead enemies."  
  
"Eow, gross!" Dawn exclaimed.  
  
"I second that," Xander threw in.  
  
"And, that was while he was still alive?" Tara asked with disgust. "Couldn't they have just slaughtered the horses? They did have horses, being knights and such?"  
  
"Well, yes, I suppose they could have," Giles said while absentmindedly turning pages in yet another leather bound book.  
  
"Good chargers don't come cheap," Anya explained, happy at being able contribute to the discussion. "Besides, I know I would not have been happy if I had to walk into battle."  
  
Having found the paragraph he had been looking for Giles continued: "Anyway, Konrad stayed in the Crusader States until the late 13th century. Apparently he encountered some kind of opposition, because he returned to Germany without his entourage of minions."  
  
"What happened?" Willow wanted to know.  
  
"It doesn't say in these books. I've sent faxes to colleagues in Saudi Arabia and Israel," Giles continued, "asking them to check Arabic and Hebrew chronicles for more information on Konrad's activities in the Orient and on the reasons why he left."  
  
"And his activities in Germany?" Willow asked.  
  
"Not very well documented, I'm afraid. Just hearsay. We know he studied magic, but not where and when. He moved around a lot, effectively covering his tracks. But as far as we know he never went back to the Middle East."  
  
"I don't see why anyone would want to," Anya commented.  
  
Giles picked up his glasses and waved them around while continuing to sum up the results of his research. "After the Thirty Years War, Konrad moved eastwards. He stayed in Warsaw for several decades, before moving to Russia. That's where you met him, Spike, isn't that correct? So what can you tell us about him?"  
  
"Where do you want me to start?"  
  
"Try the opening credits," Xander told him.  
  
"Right then. Once upon a time there was a dashing cavalier who loved a beautiful lady..."

TBC


	5. Chapter 2,2

CHAPTER 2.2

Moscow, Summer 1909  
  
The horse drawn carriage came to a halt in front of a large townhouse. Warm yellow light was shining through large windows and the sounds of laughter and music drifted down to the new arrivals. Spike was the first to get out of the carriage. He was dressed in much more gentlemanly attire than he felt comfortable with, he even wore gloves and spats, but he was prepared to make the concession for Dru's pleasure and hers alone. He had drawn the line at his hair, though. He liked it long and tied together at the nape of his neck. No way was he going to get it cut and stuck to his head with brilliantine just because everybody else did.  
  
He held out his hand and she placed her own gloved hand on his, with an almost feather light touch, then let herself be lead towards the light.  
  
"Someone's showing off," Spike growled while their carriage drove off. He was in a foul mood, because they had actually paid for their clothes and their transportation. It was well known that the Master of Moscow expected foreign visitors to pay their respects before hunting in what he considered his territory. At Drusilla's insistence Spike had written a horribly stilted letter asking when it would be convenient for them to drop by and within a few hours they had received two invitations for a ball to be held the following night.  
  
"We'll have ourselves a ball," Drusilla exclaimed in anticipation. She clapped her hands gleefully and her eyes sparkled. She had been in a splendid mood ever since they had arrived in Moscow, and quite sane, too.  
  
"That we will, my lovely, that we will." He grinned and twirled his cane.  
  
Spike wasn't really into high society soirees, because he hated the foppish people that attended them, hated them with a passion. But he loved Dru. For her he'd go to as many parties as she liked. Besides, if one avoided all those boring conversations on art and poetry, a vampire could always just inhale the scents and listen to the incessant heartbeats of couples in love. And if all else failed he could always kill one of the pretty girls and let her blood drip into the champagne - Dru liked her blood with bubbles.  
  
They were let in by a human butler who inspected their invitation cards very thoroughly before informing them that the Master would see them later. After handing over their coats and Spike's top hat, the two vampires strolled around.  
  
They noticed at once that most of the guests were human, as were all the visible servants. Beautiful girls in rustling robes, dashing young men in officers' uniforms or elegant morning coats were swirling across the dance floor, swaying to some Austrian waltz.  
  
"Would you care to dance, my beautiful raven," Spike asked, touching her cold hand to his lips.  
  
"Forever and ever, my dashing knight," she answered with a breathless giggle. They joined the other dancers and for a while Spike forgot his dislike of all those high society gits.  
  
He was almost annoyed when a liveried servant appeared to escort them to a meeting with their host. They followed him up a flight of stairs, along a corridor adorned with costly Renaissance paintings, most of which depicted sunny landscapes. Spike had to suppress the sudden urge to slash some of the canvasses to spite their host. He was itching for a nice bout of destruction but since Dru wanted the Master's hospitality, Spike would try not to make a mess of this meeting.  
  
"They say he was building a kingdom in the city of blood, when a Saracen vampire sired him." Drusilla said. "He turned against his sire and vanquished him."  
  
Spike thought he detected awe in her voice and frowned. "So, what?" he snapped.  
  
"He'll hurt you," her voice became momentarily dreamy and her hand which rested lightly on his arm gave him a painful squeeze. "He'll hurt you and he'll try to break you, my little lamb. So, let Mummy do the talking."  
  
The servant stopped in front of a very solid looking door, knocked and opened it for them. The vampires noted that the man kept his eyes averted and they could sense his fear. They walked inside. The man stayed outside and closed the door behind them.  
  
Spike and Drusilla were immediately assaulted by a multitude of smells, most of them sickly sweet. They stood inside a windowless room that looked like a strange mixture between library, laboratory and torture chamber. It was furnished with a wooden lectern and a table laden with scales, pestles and other alchemical tools. There was a cast iron brazier and a dozen candlesticks with burning fat yellow candles.  
  
Three walls were covered by shelves, one of which contained huge and dusty smelling tomes that were bound in strange materials, leather, demon skin, human skin. The other two shelves housed hundreds of colorful vials and jars, their exotic contents exuding strange aromas.  
  
However, amidst all the eye candy in the room, Spike and Drusilla's eyes were drawn to the fourth wall. It was studded with several sets of iron manacles. A good looking man, strong, with brown hair and hazel eyes, was chained to that wall - and he was entirely naked. He was shivering with fear but appeared slightly dazed. His beauty was yet unmarred.  
  
Spike could feel his hunger rising and knew Drusilla felt the same. They glanced around, but the Master, the vampire they had come to meet, was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"Oh look, Spike, what a delicious treat," Drusilla exclaimed enthusiastically. "He looks just like Daddy, don't you think? My tummy's growling. Can I have him?"   
  
Spike tilted his head. Dru was right, the human looked vaguely like Angelus. "He's playing games," Spike said. He felt like he was running out of patience. He took a silver cigarette case out of his inner pocket and lit himself a smoke. "Didn't you say he did his own sire in? Think he's trying to mess with your head, Dru."  
  
But his beloved paid no heed. She drifted over towards the captive and ran her slender hands appreciatively over his body. The man groaned.  
  
"Dru!"  
  
"Just a little taste..." Drusilla begged. Spike realized his dark beauty had forgotten the fineries of vampire etiquette. He walked over to her and stayed her hand. She slipped into game face, quite determined to drain the captive here and now, but Spike drew her into a kiss that was almost brutal, the way she liked it, slamming her back against the wall, one hand on her waist the other bunching up her skirt to touch naked skin. She laughed throatily and her human face re-emerged.  
  
"Naughty," she cooed happily.  
  
"Dru. Listen to me. The Master, the Crusader, where is he? I'm sure he's here, somewhere, watching." Dru turned to look at the man who looked so much like her sire but Spike took her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. "Now, I know you're feeling peckish and he's a right morsel, but if you take him now, you'll have to pay the Crusader for him. You hear me?" He held her and watched as the single mindedness left her.  
  
"You are right, my handsome prince," she said, then her eyes got a distant look and she began to sway, opening herself to the psychic world. "I can see you," she announced. "You're wrapped in shadows, watching us. This is no way to treat guests. I shall be very cross." She turned to look at an empty spot in the center of the room.  
  
Suddenly there was a slow clapping sound and a man appeared, right under their eyes. He looked like he was in his mid thirties, not very tall but well built and broad-shouldered. His brown hair was parted in the middle and groomed fashionably and he wore a moustache and a small goatee. His eyes were a cold gray.  
  
He was dressed in a very expensive suit with matching vest and starched lily-white shirt. As for jewellery, he wore a signet ring on his right hand, the gold chain of a pocket watch and golden cuff links. A cane with a golden handle was tucked under his arm. The hands that were applauding them had carefully manicured fingernails.  
  
"Welcome to my house, dear friends," the vampire said effusively in perfect English. "I have heard so much about the beautiful Drusilla and her valiant cavalier William the Bloody, and now you are finally in my city, paying me a visit."  
  
Drusilla smiled. Her anger was quickly forgotten.  
  
_Arrogant sod!_ Spike thought. _Didn't waste much time to remind us just who is giving the orders around here._ But he gave the Crusader a cocky grin. "Nice place, you've got here" he said cheerfully, and in his best working class accent, not really making it plain whether he was talking about the city or the house. "Oh, and it's Spike!"  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"My name, it's Spike. And you do well to remember it." Spike smirked, ignoring Drusilla's restraining hand on his arm. He flicked his cigarette butt to the floor and left it to smolder.  
  
The Crusader frowned at Spike's deliberate insolence. "I trust you will punish your... rude little fledgling for his insubordination, my dearest Drusilla?" he suggested with just a hint of menace under that velvety voice.  
  
"Oh, yes, my Spike is a wicked one, I punish him all the time. But boys will be boys." Drusilla answered, obviously beginning to enjoy the hostility of the two male vampires. She smiled radiantly at their host, gracing him with a polite nod. "Thank you for your hospitality, I always wanted to see Moscow," she continued conversationally. "They say, nowhere in the world are the humans more like cattle."  
  
"And you know what they say, Crusader, traveling broadens the mind." Spike added, peeved about having been called a fledgling.  
  
The Crusader changed. In an instant his eyes were gleaming like quicksilver in vaguely lupine features and he was baring his fangs. The hands that grabbed Spike by the neck and slammed him against the wall, were no longer human but equipped with sharp claws.  
  
"Master!" the older vampire hissed.  
  
"What?" Spike asked, forcing a laugh. He was still wearing his human face.  
  
"You will call me Master, or My Lord. And you'll do well to remember that," the older vampire demanded, his claws painfully digging into Spike's neck. Blood trickled down, staining the starched collar.  
  
"I'll do no such thing!" Spike growled. "I'm not one of your sodding minions."   
  
Silver eyes bored into his, and Spike felt the Crusader's mind invading his. "I don't care if you killed a Slayer. You will yield to me!" the older vampire demanded forcefully, bringing eight centuries worth of willpower to bear on the young vampire's mind. It was like being swept away by a spring tide. With a furious howl Spike shuddered and changed. His eyes glowed golden, ridges formed and his fangs came to the fore.  
  
However, the battle between the two vampires was not fought with fangs and claws. It was a battle of minds, a swirl of gold and silver. Spike's pedigree was good, his blood was strong. He was only four generations removed from another master, Heinrich Joseph Nest. But he had never bothered to learn the discipline of mind control. The imperative to drop his gaze and offer his throat to the Master vampire was getting stonger. The only thing that was still standing between him and submission was reckless rage, much stronger and more primeval than pride. Even so, he was losing.  
  
Just as Spike felt the Crusader's silvery pressure smothering his rage he felt new strength surging through him. Drusilla had touched his hand.  
  
The Crusader snarled at her interference and broke the eye contact. He turned towards her, ready to strike her, but she just gave him her most wicked smile, running her pink tongue over her lips and giggling breathlessly. "Don't break him, you know, for I am rather fond of my pretty dolly," she said, not quite calling the older vampire Master but nevertheless acknowledging his seniority.  
  
The Crusader gave his head a slight shake and his human face reappeared. "I would never ignore the wishes of a beautiful lady," he said suavely. He released his grip on Spike's neck and took Drusilla's hand instead, pulling it towards his lips and planting a suggestive kiss on her fingertips.  
  
"As long as you walk the earth," she cooed, "the age of chivalry prevails." She did not withdraw her hand.  
  
"You, my dear Drusilla, may of course call me Konrad," the Crusader said. "But are you quite sure, my dear, that you want to keep that insolent cub around? He wears out my patience quickly."  
  
"He's mine, he stays, " she said, dismissing the topic. She nodded at the captive. "Now, tell me, what are your plans for this delicious bit of temptation?"   
  
"Forgive me, I am neglecting my duties as your host." he said and led her towards the chained human with a flourish. "Shall we dine?"  
  
Spike rubbed his aching neck and pushed his vampire face away. He watched as Drusilla began to work her charms on the Crusader. He felt a slight pang of jealousy, but he didn't really have reason to doubt her. She'd always be his black haired beauty, deliciously irresistible and anybody's match. He truly was a lucky bloke.  
  
***  
  
"After that I tried to stay out of the Crusader's hair. We had permission to hunt, and that was all I cared about. Dru really liked Moscow. Said the city smelled of despair. So, we stayed."  
  
"Wow, Spike, I'm impressed. It took you less than five minutes to really piss off one of the oldest vampires around. Notice how I said impressed, not surprised," Xander said.  
  
Giles looked up from the notes he'd been jotting down. "The only thing surprising is that he's still around to tell the tale," he mumbled.  
  
Spike just folded his arms in front of his chest and cocked one eyebrow.  
  
"So why are we researching this guy again?" Xander asked, while he bit into another donut, "Cause I can't say I'm entirely heartbroken by the fact that Spike's past is catching up with him."  
  
"You're not getting it, are you?" Spike said, visibly irritated. "He's not here for me. I don't know why he's here and what he wants, but it's not me he's after. He'll just do me in en passant, and that's chess speak, children, and means capturing a pawn in passing."  
  
There was an uncomfortable silence.  
  
"So," Giles finally said, after clearing his throat. "The Crusader had human servants and guests?"  
  
"Yeah. We weren't allowed to eat any of them."  
  
"Did he?" Dawn asked.  
  
"What, eat the humans in his house? No. Something along the lines of don't-shit-where-you-eat." Spike shrugged.  
  
"Eew. I mean, weird. Why keep humans around, if you're not going to eat them?" Dawn wanted to know.  
  
"Presumably, because he wanted to establish a facade of normalcy, perhaps even maintain some kind of link to humanity." Giles suggested. "It must have cost him a sizable fortune in bribes to establish himself in the upper echelons of society without drawing undue attention to his nocturnal lifestyle."  
  
"'Link to humanity?' Yeah, well, there are a few vampires who act like that, too pathetic to embrace their new nature. But not the Crusader."  
  
"Look who's talking," Xander interrupted.  
  
"Spike shot him a murderous look but continued. "The Crusader never gave a rat's ass about humanity. If you ask me, he just got off on ordering people around in his breathing days, and stayed that way when he was turned."  
  
There was another silence, while Giles scribbled a slightly edited version of Spike's assessment into his notebook. From the office the sounds of the fax machine could be heard, as it produced a seemingly endless stream of printed paper.  
  
Outside the sun had already set. "Pizza," Xander suddenly exclaimed, as his stomach caught up with the time of day. "If there's going to be more research and some patrolling tonight, we should order some pizza." The remark sparked off serious haggling over toppings and side dishes.  
  
Spike just grabbed his coat - not for warmth but for style - and went outside for a smoke. He couldn't shake a nasty feeling of apprehension.

TBC


	6. Chapter 3,1

CHAPTER THREE  
  
  
"Say Giles, if this Crusader guy is old enough to be Dracula's granddad, how come you have so little on him?" Xander asked, balancing a pizza slice with two hands so the extra cheese couldn't slide off.   
  
"Yeah right," Willow agreed. "The books are unusually vague about him. I mean there's plenty of information about Angelus's activities or Spike's," she shot the vampire a glance. He sat on the floor, cross-legged, far away from the garlic fumes, his nose buried in a brand new looking book and was snorting repeatedly. Willow pointed at a large volume that was lying on the table: "This one's supposed to be a compendium on all the notorious vamps in history, a who's who of those with fangs if you like. It's got like 20 pages on the Master, and did you know his name was Joseph Nest?"  
  
"I did," Spike said, without looking up from his book.  
  
"As did I," Giles said, averting his eyes from the greasy pizza boxes, hoping the children would wipe their hands before touching his books. He mentally promised himself a nice ham salad for when he came home. He was pretty certain that for the rest of his life he'd always associate pizza with Sunnydale and late night research on monsters.   
  
"There's more than 30 pages on Angelus and Darla," Willow continued, ignoring the interruption. "On how they escaped some kind of vampire hunter and about all the victims they turned into vampires, and let me just say ew…"  
  
"How about Spike?" Xander asked with his mouth full. "How many pages is he worth? I bet Dru's got more than him."  
  
"Eight," the indignant answer came from the floor. "Only goes to show that the author's a complete and utter moron who doesn't know what he's talkin' about."  
  
"So, how many pages are there on the Crusader?" Tara asked, bringing the conversation back on track.  
  
"Five," Willow and Giles said simultaneously.  
  
"Five pages? That's not much," Dawn chipped in.  
  
"Basically, all the books we've perused so far give us the same basic facts, we have yet to find sources that are more detailed," Giles felt the need to elaborate. "There are still quite a few volumes we haven't checked. I'm pretty positive it's just a matter of finding the right book."  
  
"Mr. Giles?"  
  
"Yes Tara?"  
  
"I was wondering… I mean, I thought the Council were good at this kind of thing, research and stuff?" Tara said hesitatingly. Finding herself uncomfortably the center of everybody's attention she blushed but bravely stammered on, "Many of these books are written by people working for the Council, right? Do you think the Council knows things, but doesn't want anyone else to know? You know, covering things up? I mean, it's not like I want to suggest they're doing something wrong, maybe they're just trying to, um, keep things under wraps."  
  
Willow gave Tara's hand an encouraging squeeze. "Good thinking, baby," she said and looked at the Watcher. "Tara's right, there may be a reason why the books have been so unhelpful. Remember all the info on Glory they kept from us?"  
  
"I will endeavor to look into the matter. If the Council is truly hiding something, it might not be a good idea to alert them to soon to our object of research. I will contact one of my friends and see if I can find out more." Giles looked at his watch and worked out the time difference, then walked into the office to make a phone call.  
  
***   
  
"Good Lord," Giles exclaimed more to himself than in order to elicit attention. He was reading a long fax printout that trailed behind him like a well, long paper trail.  
  
"What's it say, Leporello?" Spike said smirking at the ridiculous sight.  
  
But Giles wasn't going to be distracted, not even by the somewhat staggering revelation that Spike of all people was referencing Mozart operas.   
  
"Good Lord," he repeated. "According to this, the Council issued orders that the Crusader is not to be interfered with."  
  
"What? Diplomatic immunity for vampires?" Xander's jaw dropped.  
  
"It would seem that way," Giles mumbled, still scanning the printout.  
  
"That's kinda weird," Willow said.  
  
"That's not weird, that's daft." Spike muttered. "Since when does the Council make exceptions? With the Crusader's body count, taking him out should be top priority."  
  
"Apparently, the Council did indeed try to eliminate the Crusader," Giles said. "The first recorded attempt was made in 1702, They sent the active Slayer and her Watcher to Warsaw to take him out. It is known that they reached Warsaw safely, but then they disappeared without a trace and shortly afterwards a new Slayer was chosen."  
  
"The first attempt? There were others?" Willow asked.  
  
"Well, yes. And I am sorry to say, they were all rather unsuccessful. Quite catastrophic, in fact. In each instance Slayer and Watcher just vanished, and another Slayer was called. The last time it took six years until the new Slayer was chosen. Six years in which the world was without a chosen defender! Finally, the Council received a letter. It was written in her blood and read: 'Should you persist in your attacks on me or my vassals, you will come to know my wrath. Should you send another Slayer, she will be the only one in history to die of old age. I strongly suggest you turn your attention elsewhere.' It was simply signed Konrad von Hohenfels and bore his seal." That was the day the new Slayer was called."  
  
Giles sat down, feeling the humiliation of the Council, as if it was still fresh. "That was when the Council admitted defeat. Not our finest hour, to be sure."  
  
The Scoobies sat in sad silence, moved by the deaths of these young girls whom they had never known. They didn't know what to say. Even Xander had no sarcastic comment to make.  
  
"How many Slayers did they lose?" Spike asked, when the silence became oppressive.  
  
"Four. Over a period of 200 years."  
  
Spike cocked his eyebrow in surprise. There were not many vampires who could claim to have caused the death of a Slayer or more than one. Sure, Slayers died all the time, but usually against overwhelming numbers or because they were already weakened by previous battles. The ones Spike had fought and killed had been in their prime, and the fact that he had bested them had earned him a reputation as bad ass fighter, greatly increasing his standing among vampires - not to mention in Dru's eyes.  
  
Spike found it hard to believe that the Crusader had caused the death of four Slayers and never bragged about it. "During one of the Crusader's parties the subject of Slayers came up. One of the other guests wanted to know how I killed my first Slayer, you know, the one in China. Konrad was there, too, but he never mentioned the four he had under his belt."  
  
His choice of words earned him disgusted looks from everybody around the table.  
  
"Oh, so you met the Crusader more than once?" Anya asked.  
  
"Oh yes. Dru liked his parties."  
  
"What happened?" Giles asked matter-of-factly, all set to take notes.  
  
"Dawn? Can you give me some paper and a decent pencil, luv?" Spike asked. He pushed some of Giles's books away to make room on the table.  
  
"Sure." She rummaged among her school books and came up with a typical college pad and an assortment of ball pens and pencils.  
  
"That'll do. Thanks, morsel." He opened the pad, chose a pencil and began to make a sketch. Meanwhile he continued his narration:  
  
***  
  
Moscow 1910  
  
When Spike came back to from the hunt, he heard the all too familiar sounds of glass breaking: Large shards falling to the floor and exploding into smaller pieces that ricocheted across the polished parquet floor of the ball room like skittering vermin; small shards crunching under foot. He also heard his love wailing and screaming insults like a Banshee. He realized that Drusilla was in the process of smashing each and every mirror in the house.  
  
He propped his unconscious captive, a very slender dark-haired girl, on a chaiselongue and rushed over to embrace his love. She was standing in a beautiful ballroom, with sparkling chandeliers and expensive wood paneling. The heavy curtains were drawn. One wall of the room had been covered with huge mirrors, but Drusilla had shattered them all. She was bleeding from a few shallow cuts that were already healing.  
  
"It runs away from me, hiding in one of those looking glasses. One day I'll catch it. I'll smash every mirror and then it will have no place to hide. And then we'll sew it back on, won't we, Spike?"  
  
From time to time Drusilla became obsessed with the desire to see her own image. It became all she could think about. She needed to be reminded of what she looked like, of who she was. During these moods she would look into every possible mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of her reflection. Eventually, like tonight, she would fly into a fit of rage and destroy every mirror she could lay her hands on.  
  
Spike had given up on trying to tell her, that it was impossible to sew a reflection back on, or to catch it in mousetraps baited with blood coated biscuits, or to lure it into a particular mirror by singing the same bloody nursery rhyme to it for three days and nights in a row: "Mirror, Mirror, tell me, am I pretty or plain? Or am I downright ugly and ugly to remain?"  
  
He really knew that one by heart. He had also given up on taking her to painters to have her portrait commissioned. His wicked love tended to eat the artist before he was finished. Instead Spike had taken up drawing again, something he had learned during his breathing days.  
  
"Shhh, my sweetheart. Would you like me to catch it on paper?" He was surprised when she shook her head.  
  
"These mirrors are wrong. Paper is wrong. All wrong!" She touched her temples with her spidery fingers and Spike knew she was having some kind of vision. "But Konrad, he will make it right."  
  
"What does the bloody Crusader have to do with mirrors?"  
  
"You'll see, you'll see!" Drusilla exclaimed, suddenly happy again.  
  
"If you say so, pet," Spike said, slightly peeved. He led Drusilla out of the ballroom, then he locked the door and pocketed the key. Something he should have had the foresight to do when they had moved in three weeks ago. He picked up the unconscious girl, careful not to ruffle her clothes too much. Ignoring the sickly stench of dead bodies in the cellar, the two vampires ascended the stairs to the main bedroom.  
  
"Oh, you brought me a new dress!" Drusilla observed. "How nice, I shall wear it tonight at the ball!"  
  
"What ball?" Spike asked, while undressing the unconscious prey with practiced ease.  
  
"Oh, the invitation should be there somewhere. It came a few weeks ago, while you were out hunting." Drusilla pointed one of her perfectly manicured slender fingers at the dressing table. Needless to say, the mirror of the dressing table was smashed. There were glistening shards strewn all over the table surface and the carpet. Spike draped Dru's new clothes over a chair and searched the drawers. He came across an unopened envelope addressed to The Beauteous Drusilla. The red blot of sealing wax bore the imprint of a stylized sun, the Crusader's seal. Spike tore the envelope open and took out the invitation. It differed from the ones they had received before. The text was in Latin, and it was written in brownish ink - obviously dried blood. _*Pretentious bastard.*_ Spike growled, squinting at the tiny letters.  
  
"So, the high and mighty Master of Moscow is inviting you to bear witness to his latest arcane accomplishments. Whatever those may be. Let me guess, that's posh for I-want-to-show-off." He let the invitation flutter to the floor. "Looks like I'm not invited."  
  
"But of course you are, Spike. I am not going without you."  
  
"Well, at least he's sending a carriage to pick us up."  
  
He watched as Drusilla sat down on the bed and took the warm body of his captive into her arms. The young woman shivered. The touch of Drusilla's cold hands on her bare skin seemed to wake her.  
  
"Do you want to play, Spike?" Drusilla asked.  
  
"I've eaten. She's all yours. I'll just watch."  
  
Drusilla giggled.  
  
"Do we really have to go to that party, luv? We could just stay in and I could make a drawing of you," Spike suggested, when Drusilla had proclaimed that her tummy was all full and warm.  
  
"I like Konrad's parties very much," Dru announced. "I like the way the world spins when the music stops."  
  
"I'll need a new suit," Spike grumbled. "The other one's got too many stains." He picked up the dead woman and carried her downstairs to join the others in the cellar.   
  
Drusilla had her mind set on going, so he helped her get ready. He was by now as adept at getting a lady dressed as at getting her out of her clothes, even though the tiny hooks and buttons tried his patience. When Drusilla was ready in her new emerald gown she sat down on a stool and took out her tarot cards. Using the bed as a table she started on a divination. Meanwhile, Spike hunted through drawers and wardrobes. The original owner of this house had had roughly his size, so there were plenty of clothes to choose from.  
  
_*Not as good as tailor made, but it will have to do,*_ he thought while fastening the cuff links. Suddenly he realized that Dru had been quiet for a long time. He looked at her and saw that she was still looking at the cards spread out in front of her. "Well, luv, what do the cards say?"  
  
"The cards say one thing, but the pixies say another."  
  
"And?"  
  
"The cards say that you will die."  
  
Spike blinked. He had come to rely on Drusilla's divinations. Therefore, he found that prediction rather unsettling. "Oh? When's that then? And what do the pixies have to say about this?"  
  
"I'm not listening to them," Drusilla said indignantly. "I don't like their stories. They say electricity will teach you a new dance." And that was all she would say.  
  
TBC


	7. Chapter 3,2

Chapter 3.2 

They were among the last to arrive. This time, there were no live servants to take their coats. This was a vamps only affair.  
  
The Crusader welcomed them effusively, kissing Drusilla's hand nonchalantly and giving Spike a condescending pat on the shoulder. "Drusilla, it is so good to see you! You look absolutely radiant. William, glad you could make it, too. Come, my friends. There are a few people I would like you to meet."  
  
Konrad von Hohenfels led them around, introducing them to the crème de la crème of Moscow's fanged population, over forty vampires, who owed him allegiance. There were also about a dozen guests from outside of Moscow, some of whom had apparently traveled far to be able to attend. All were displaying expensive tailor-made gowns and suits and wore expensive jewelry. Spike wore a scowl. This was exactly the kind of function he no longer wanted anything to do with. Too reminiscent of his breathing days. Bored and restless, he was itching for a fight --or a kill. But even he knew that this was the wrong time and place to try and have some fun.  
  
He slowly became aware of the fact that almost everyone they were introduced to was older than both he and Dru taken together. His mood didn't exactly improve.  
  
"There is someone here who is eager to meet you, William," von Hohenfels said. He lead them to a small bookish man. "John, I'd like you to meet Drusilla, of the order of Aurelius, and her escort William the Bloody. Drusilla, William, this is John Arthur Fitzroy. He used to be a Watcher before I sired him."  
  
Fitzroy gave Drusilla a polite bow and shook Spike's hand. "Spike, I heard so much about you. Is it true that you killed a Slayer single-handedly? Pray, tell me all about it. How did you do it?"  
  
Spike grinned. Vampires weren't exactly known for their modesty, and neither was he. It was all the prompting he needed. A lively narrator, he soon attracted a larger audience. Even the Crusader listened politely, a strange smile curling his lip, but eventually he excused himself, and left Spike and Fitzroy to discuss the fineries of Slayer slaying. Drusilla quickly got bored and drifted off into the crowd.  
  
"So you're saying the Council has no power over who gets chosen when one of the Slayers snuffs it?" Spike asked, eager to get first hand information on one of his favorite obsessions.  
  
Fitzroy nodded. "Exactly. But sometimes there are portents, singling out potential candidates who are then subjected to vigorous training."  
  
"And?" Spike asked. "Did you train one?"  
  
"I did indeed," Fitzroy told him, not without pride. "She got chosen, too. An apt pupil and a gifted fighter if ever there was one. She dusted six of her attackers before she was overpowered. The last thing she felt were my fangs ripping her throat. Splendid drink that, Slayer's blood. Just splendid."  
  
"Greatest drink in the world," Spike agreed.  
  
As much as he enjoyed his chat with the ex-Watcher and fellow-countryman, eventually Spike felt twitchy and caged, eager to stretch his legs, so he excused himself. Passing the door to the ballroom, he found it slightly ajar. He looked inside and found it deserted, so he slipped inside. Ignoring the fact that there were beautifully polished wooden boxes all over the house containing cigarettes and cigars, Spike dug out his tobacco pouch and rolled himself a cigarette. Something about the ballroom looked different. One wall had been completely covered by dark green velvet curtains. Spike lifted one of the curtains and was surprised to find a huge mirror, which hadn't been there before. What did the Crusader want with mirrors? As he withdrew his hand to let the curtain fall back into place, Spike was startled by something. Movement --in that mirror, and not just of the green curtain. He lifted the heavy fabric again, and then it hit him. The mirror reflected a black sleeved arm with a white cuff and silver cufflinks. His arm.  
  
He yanked at the curtain uncovering a larger section of the mirror. There it was, his long lost reflection. He hadn't seen himself in a mirror in thirty years. Amazing at how different he looked. Taller somehow. Wussy William truly was dead – and good riddance, too. Spike touched the scar where the sword of the Chinese Slayer had split his brow. The memory of that fight never failed to make him smile: the best night of his existence, life and unlife taken together. He let his vampire features emerge and admired the savagery he saw reflected in the mirror: the bony ridges, the golden eyes and, the razor-sharp fangs, bared in a wolfish grin. So, this was the face that struck terror into the hearts of his victims. Neat!  
  
"Please, Sir!" a pleading voice said to him. Spike spun around and saw one of the Crusader's minions standing next to him. He, too, was reflected in the mirror. "You shouldn't be here, Sir." the minion said nervously, and in heavily accented English. "The Master will soon address his guests in the dining room. Allow me to put this back into place for you." The minion grabbed the curtain and hurriedly pulled it back over the mirror.  
  
Spike growled in annoyance, but he shook off his vampire face and allowed himself to be ushered from the room. So, that was Konrad's big surprise. Dru would be pleased. Maybe they could sneak back into the ballroom together. Spike strolled through the house on an erratic course, looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found. It took Spike a while to realize, that the Crusader wasn't around, either.  
  
He stifled a growl and grabbed himself one of the waiters. "Where is he? Where's the bleedin' Crusader?" The minion's eyes widened at Spike's lack of respect, but he pointed towards the ballroom. Spike walked over and listened at the door. On the other side there were voices and he could hear his Dru laughing.  
  
"Look, how pretty we are!"  
  
"My dearest Drusilla," the voice of the Crusader could be heard. "There's so much I could teach you. You are very powerful for one so young. I could help you hone your abilities."  
  
White-hot rage coursed through him. Before he knew it, Spike was through the door, not caring one iota that barging in like that made him look like jealous fool with the self-control of a sodding fledgeling.  
  
Apart from Drusilla and Konrad the room was empty. The older vampire stood in the middle of the ballroom, leaning on his walking stick. All the curtains had been drawn back from the mirrors. Drusilla was wearing her vampiric features.  
  
Spike stopped in his tracks when it became obvious that he wasn't really interrupting anything. Drusilla was walking from one mirror to the next, gazing at her reflection in awe. She touched the glass with just one cautious finger as if the merest contact might cause ripples on the hard surface or worse, as if her touch might make the image disappear for good.  
  
Spike slipped into his human guise, closed the door and leaned against it, trying to look casual. It was difficult to roll a cigarette when one's hand were shaking with bloodlust and rage, put he persevered. He struck a match and lit his cigarette, then flicked the still burning match into the other man's general direction. It landed on the polished parquet, glowed for a few more seconds and then winked out, leaving a small but noticeable singed spot.  
  
There was a flash of silver in the Crusader's eyes, but then the older vampire decided to simply ignore Spike. Instead Konrad walked over to Drusilla, clasping her hand, trying to make her turn towards him. Drusilla didn't budge, unwilling to take her eyes off herself, no matter how briefly.  
  
"Join me as my consort," Konrad said, willing her to pay attention, but not quite succeeding, "and you will never be lacking in excitement or blood. If you wish, you may study arcane secrets, rituals and spells with me, shaping the world to your whim. Yours is a rare and precious gift. Together, you and I shall unlock the darkest secrets."  
  
"I like secrets," Drusilla said dreamily. It was the first indication that at least part of her had listened to Konrad's offer. "But I don't like yours. It's bright and fiery and it hurts my eyes." She shook off his grip, causing him to frown indignantly. Konrad von Hohenfels was not accustomed to being denied.  
  
_*Consort!*_ Spike almost spat. He dropped his cigarette and swaggered towards them until he was standing behind his dark princess. Slinging his arms firmly around his lover's waist, he planted a kiss on her slender neck, looking straight ahead into the mirror, meeting her gaze with his. Her reflection rewarded him with a lascivious smile.  
  
"The lady's not interested, can't you see?" Spike told the Crusader, nibbling at Drusilla's ear without losing eye-contact.  
  
"We'll see about that," the Crusader said smoothly. "Anyway, it is time for me to address my guests. And there will be refreshments. I would appreciate it, if you'd join us."  
  
He pulled at a tasseled cord, draping the curtain over a section of mirrored wall. When his obstinate guests refused to move from the spot, he turned on his heel and left the ballroom, the harsh sound of his cane on the parquet the only outward sign of his anger.  
  
The lovers ignored him. Spike's kisses became more passionate. Drusilla's vampiric visage was replaced by her human features. With nimble fingers Spike began to unhook the bodice of her gown, knowing she'd be eager to see herself unveiled. The dress slid down, pooling around her slender ankles. Chemise, corset and stockings followed, until nothing remained. "You know, luv" Spike whispered in her ear. "you're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. I love you. And I'll never let you go. Never, you hear me?."  
  
At that she turned around to look at him, and a strange sadness settled on her face. "Yes, you will," she said. "The pixies told me. But not tonight." She kissed him with a passion and her hands began to pull at his clothes, shoving his jacket off his shoulders and untying his cravat. They made love in front of the Crusader's enchanted mirrors, clinging to each other as if this was their last night on earth.  
  
By the time Spike and Drusilla joined the other guests again, the better half of the Crusader's speech was already over. So much for the better. _*Pompous git!* _Spike listened with only one ear to the Master's self-adulation. Instead he watched as some of Konrad's minions built a kind of pyramid of shallow champagne glasses. Spike found himself hoping the fragile construction would tilt and crash, cutting the Crusader off in mid sentence. No such luck.  
  
"...so, my dear friends, I hope you will all drink with me and revel in the power to feed on life itself!"  
  
There was applause from the vampires gathered, some of it downright frenetic. Spike despised the way the Crusader's minions fawned on their sire.  
  
Everybody turned towards the pyramid of glasses. There was a kind of faucet directly above the topmost glass. It was connected to a copper pipe which disappeared in the ceiling. Suddenly there was a crimson drop blossoming in the top glass, another drop, and more, drops turning into a thin rivulet of blood, gushing from the faucet, filling the glass to the brim. The scent of hot blood reached Spike's nostrils and he heard a few guests growl in anticipation, as the red tide spilt over the sides of the glass to fill the other drinking vessels beneath it.  
  
"Isn't it pretty?" Drusilla admired the cascade of blood. She took off her right glove.  
  
"Couldn't he have just thrown in a few live humans? Blood tastes stale out of glasses," Spike muttered.  
  
"Shh," Drusilla scolded him. "You mustn't insult our host."  
  
"Why not? I'm not going to cow to him, just cause the cards say he's got a stake with my name on it."  
  
For a moment Dru's eyes glazed over and she had that faraway look Spike had come to associate with her more profound insights. She swayed slightly and the emerald glove slipped out of her hand. Spike caught it with a smooth gesture before it could drop to the floor and be trampled underfoot, then tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. There was a commotion, when the tide of guests swept towards the blood-filled glasses. The waiters distributed drinks all around. Spike stayed at Drusilla's side, supporting her with one arm and making sure no one bumped into her while she was in her trance.  
  
It didn't take long and every guest was holding a filled glass. There was a hush as everybody waited for Konrad's toast. Their host was standing on an elevated dais, so that everybody could see him. There was a beautiful blonde vampire at his side, who was smiling proudly. The Master of Moscow let his gaze wander through the room, finally appraising Spike and Dru who stood alone, empty-handed. Everyone followed the Crusader's gaze and Spike suddenly found himself the center of attention of about 60 other vampires. At a gesture of their host a waiter with a polished silver tray and two filled glasses approached them. It was obvious to everyone present, that the Crusader was only waiting for them. Spike gave Dru a very slight shake, hoping to gently coax her out of her trance. He reached for a glass and placed it in her hand, closing her fingers around it. When he was sure that she wasn't going to drop it, he took the other drink.  
  
Satisfied the Crusader raised his glass in salute, and his guests mirrored the gesture. "May your existence be filled with cold kisses and hot blood," the Crusader boomed sanctimoniously.  
  
The vampires drank. Spike shrugged and raised his drink to his lips, glancing sideways at Drusilla, when he saw her open her hand and drop her glass as if it were scalding hot. To Spike's heightened senses it seemed to fall with almost dreamlike slowness, spilling its crimson content with a languid spin before crashing on the parquet and exploding into a multitude of little shards. A large red stain blossomed on the polished wood, and splashes of red discolored the emerald hem of Dru's new gown. Drusilla appeared perfectly sane, but even if she'd screamed like a banshee or sang like a madwoman, it wouldn't have changed anything. She was his sire and his one true love. He shrugged and rather than drink he held his glass away from his body. "Dru?" he whispered quietly.  
  
"Don't drink, my lovely. It smells like chains and words of magic," she whispered back. He turned back to look at the Crusader, cocked one eyebrow mockingly and dropped his glass. Over a hundred pairs of eyes stared at him. "Oh dear," Spike said with a grin. "I'm so clumsy."  
  
TBC

AN: Sorry, I haven't updated this in what seems like forever. This part has been finished for a long time, I merely forgot to post it.

I don't have a lot of time to write, but I'd still like to finish this eventually. I just can't promise it will happen soon. 


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